


The Detour

by sleeepyowl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All The Tropes, Attempt at Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, It's For a Case, John Watson cannot drive, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Travel, a wild goose chase, coming to terms with feelings, slightly angsty, through america
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7267102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeepyowl/pseuds/sleeepyowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Facing devastating loss, John Watson relies on his best friend in order to cope. When a mysterious message arrives for Sherlock strongly hinting that Irene Adler has been kidnapped and taken to America against her will, it becomes the responsibility of the detective and the army doctor to find her. </p>
<p>This story includes: an epic road trip across the states, coming to terms with feelings™, John Watson learning how to drive, and slight road rage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted the beginning of this first chapter as a different story, before I realized that what I was writing wasn't going anywhere, and I was actually writing a completely different fic without knowing it. This starts out in a dark place, but I promise things will progressively get better. 
> 
> Comments keep me writing, dear reader. Actually, I would probably keep writing anyway, but comments always make my day and are a huge motivation. :)

John didn't grieve. He couldn't because in order to grieve he would need both strength and the capacity for feeling—two things he currently didn't have. 

He supposed it started at the wedding. The shock, unease, and quick recovery when he found out Mary was pregnant. Then, joy. He was going to be a father. 

They made a mistake, he knew that much. The threads that held their relationship together were unraveling slowly by each day. They didn't talk about it. They didn't talk about anything.

The first night John slept on the couch a month and a half after the wedding, he thought about Baker Street and the subtle calm and organised chaos that his old flat had. He could get a decent night's sleep there in the living room whilst Sherlock sat in his chair or at the desk lost in a sea of papers and case files and chemical reactions. He remembered the deep murmur of Sherlock's voice as he worked things out, talking to the skull presumably—but to John it was like a lullaby. 

Back at his flat with Mary it was entirely too empty. No microscope on the table or bullet holes in the wall. It was utterly clean and cold. In that space John felt vulnerable lying on the sofa in the dark. No lamplights from Baker Street filtered through or reflected. John was floating in his own flat. There was nothing to ground him. 

The first day he woke up and found her gone, he wasn't surprised. Her suitcase was missing. Most of her clothes were no longer in the closet. John's breathing became shallow as he sat down on the edge of the bed and stared blankly at the wall of their (now his) bedroom. That was when he stopped feeling anything. 

There was a handwritten note. Nothing elaborate, just a hastily scrawled notice that she would call him later, or send a text. John didn't care. The nub of the pencil she had written it with had worn down creating thick lines on the colourful piece of paper. Her handwriting didn't look familiar and it could have been a stranger leaving him a note for all John knew. He briefly considered that she had been kidnapped but rejected the idea almost immediately. He should have paid better attention to the warning signs; it was obvious that she had been planning this for some time. 

He wondered about the baby. It was the one thing that had been holding them together the past few weeks and the reason John hadn't tried to call it off. He wanted to still try and it seemed as though perhaps Mary would want to as well. John didn't love the idea of being a husband but he did love the idea of being a father. He believed that he could be a good one with practice. The thought that he wouldn't have even the opportunity to try being a father brought a painful sensation in his fingertips like little needles stabbing at the pads below his nails. John twitched. The dust patterns swirled in the sunlight next to the bed.

John stayed in the flat for three days and his heart leapt on the second when he heard the chime of his mobile on the bedside table. 

_I can tell you where she is. SH_

Another text, before John could even respond: 

_Only if you'd like to know, of course. SH._

He'd seen Sherlock a fortnight ago, they'd met at Bart's and subsequently chased a murderer through Kensington, drawing attention to themselves in the poshest part of town. Neither of them had to pull a gun that time. John didn't stick around for post-case Chinese because he felt as though he needed to get home. Mary was due in less than a month. He slept on the couch that night wondering why he didn't just stay and have dinner with Sherlock.  

Sherlock's texts went unanswered and John kept away from his phone until on the third day when Mary finally got through to him. 

_I'm safe. The baby is safe._

John picked up the phone with trembling hands and stared at the screen, not knowing quite what to say. The baby. She'd been born.  How dare she take his daughter away from him? He hit the call button with a little too much vigor. 

It rang four times before Mary picked up. Neither of them said anything but John could hear her soft breathing at the other end. 

"I'm sorry," she choked out. "John, it just wasn't working. You know it wasn't."

"This isn't about us," John hissed. "It doesn't matter that it wasn't working, what matters is our daughter. I'm not going to let you take her from me." 

"John-" 

"No! Listen to me, Mary. I have every right as her father-" 

"She's not yours." 

John felt like he had suddenly been punched in the gut. "What?" he snapped. 

"She's not yours, John." 

His ears were beginning to ring. "Are you telling me that you had an affair?" White, hot anger seared through him, the first recognisable emotion in days. He needed to kick or punch something; throw a glass against the wall. He stood up and kicked the side of the bed hard but it didn't budge. 

Mary was starting to sob. "I'm so... I'm so sorry John." 

"Who?" John hissed again, the words getting caught in his throat. 

"David and I-" 

"Stop. Just stop it. I don't want to hear it." It was suddenly unbearable. He didn't want to know the details. "My lying, cheating, wife. God, what a fool I've been. Everyone always thought my best friend was the sociopath but did they have it wrong." 

"I don't want you to find us. Don't even think about coming after me, John." Her voice had taken an edge to it. All signs that she had been sobbing into the phone uncontrollably just a moment before disappeared. "If you try, it'll be the last thing you do. The divorce papers will be in the mail." 

The line went dead. It was several minutes until John realised that the last thing Mary said had been spoken with an American accent. She's gone a bit freelance now... all those botched jobs for the CIA. 

John was horrified. He had no idea who he had married. God, he had been such a fool. 

* * *

 John found himself staring up at the door of 221B at two in the morning. Sherlock opened the door before he could knock. The detective didn't speak. He didn't ask what John was doing there. He simply opened the door and walked up the stairs without turning around to see if John would follow. 

The flat was dark. Sherlock had left the one singular red lamp on above the couch. His violin sat propped up against his chair. _So he'd been playing then and saw me walk up,_ thought John. 

Sherlock picked up his violin and sat down. He plucked at the strings absentmindedly whilst John poured himself a drink. "Do you want one?" John asked, his voice coming out in a rasp as though he hadn't spoken for days, not hours. 

"No thank you," murmured Sherlock. 

John sat down in his chair across from Sherlock as he opened his mouth as to speak. 

"Don't, Sherlock," said John. "I don't want to know where she is."  He took a gulp of his very full brandy. 

"I understand," Sherlock put his violin down and steepled his hands below his chin, staring at John. 

John's hands were shaking as he took another sip. Time passed. It seemed to grow darker. The clock struck three and it was a while before John could speak again, until the glass was empty and the sharp edges had dulled. He didn't know how much Sherlock knew. "Not mine. She wasn't mine." He was surprised to find that his speech was slurred. 

"John," Sherlock breathed, putting his left hand out as if to reach for him across the space between their chairs in the darkness. He froze awkwardly halfway and leaned back instead. 

"I'm so angry, Sherlock. I'm so bloody angry. I was going to be a father and she took that all away from me." John stood, wanting to pour himself another drink, uneasy on his feet. He stumbled toward the kitchen. 

"I think you've had enough." Sherlock stood behind him as John faced the cupboard. 

"Don't bloody tell me what to do," John slurred. 

Sherlock stepped around John and reached out for the brandy bottle, gently prying it from his hands. John let out a frustrated noise in his throat and reached for it again. The bottle slipped between them and fell to a crash on the floor, glass and alcohol splattering everywhere. John vehemently pushed Sherlock in the chest to get him away. Sherlock stumbled backwards caught off guard and fell on the floor—John had underestimated his strength. 

Sherlock's fall was enough to snap him out of it. "Oh god Sherlock," he said stepping around the glass to get to his best friend. "Jesus, I'm so sorry." The room was spinning. John thought he might pass out. 

"You're angry, I get that. But don't take it out on me." Sherlock's voice below him had a hint of steel to it.

John grasped Sherlock's hands and used his weight to pull him up stumbling himself. Sherlock gripped him tighter so that he wouldn't fall as well. 

"Are you okay?" 

Sherlock nodded. 

The next thing John knew was that he standing in the middle of the kitchen of 221B, sobbing wildly, with a pool of alcohol on the floor surrounding him. 

"Jesus, John," said Sherlock. "You need to go to bed." 

"Don't tell me what to do," John said again. 

"Yes, that's the second time you've told me that tonight, thank you. Now before you become violent again, you need to upstairs to your bedroom and sleep it off. We can talk in the morning." 

John frowned. Your bedroom. As though all of the time with Mary hadn't passed and John was still living at 221B.  It was all too much, too soon. He looked up at Sherlock. "I can't do this. I'm leaving." 

He walked out into the sitting room and grabbed his coat off the back of the chair. "I have to go," he muttered without meeting Sherlock's eyes. 

Sherlock didn't try to stop him as he walked out the door.

* * *

 

John woke up the next morning lying face down on top of the duvet back at his flat. He barely remembered getting home in the early hours of the morning. His clothes were stuck to his back and a sheen of sweat clung to his brow. His head felt three times larger than normal. He opened his bleary eyes to the bright sunny light shining through the window and curtains he never bothered to close the night before. John fiercely wished that it could just be a normal, cloudy London day instead of a clear anomaly. It was spring, after all. It should have been pouring.

The doctor let out an involuntary groan as he struggled to remember the events of the night previous. _Mary. The baby. Sherlock_. 

At first he didn't even want to consider getting out of bed, but he forced himself up to use the the loo, and then close the curtains to darken the bedroom. He took off his trousers, got into his pants and vest, closed his eyes and groaned again as he pulled the duvet up and over his head, engulfing himself in familiar darkness. That was much, much better. 

John couldn't stand feeling the hollowness in his chest that had become a permanent fixture during the day ever since he woke up to find the note. He couldn't face Sherlock and he couldn't bring himself to think too much about Mary because the moment her face presented itself at the fringes of his memory, he felt acute pain in his chest. All he wanted was a dreamless sleep. So John Watson slipped back into unconsciousness. 

* * *

There was someone knocking at the front door. Lightly at first, then more insistent; a hard rap of knuckles against wood. John opened his eyes and threw the duvet off of himself, sitting up slowly and rubbing a hand across his face. He badly needed a shave. After a brief pause, John listened for the door again, hearing nothing. Perhaps he had imagined the sound that he thought woke him up. The light in the room cast deep shadows, informing him that it was much later, perhaps early evening. John sighed, his eyes briefly fluttering closed and the unmistakable sound of the front door clicking open rang through the flat. 

He instinctively grabbed his Browning from the top of his nightstand drawer and clicked the safety off, as he crept toward his bedroom door which was slightly ajar. There were determined footsteps in the hall coming closer to where John was standing. 

The bedroom door swung open as John stepped around and pointed his gun at the intruder. 

"For heaven's sake, John," Sherlock scoffed. "What the hell are you doing?" 

John realised too late the ridiculousness of the situation. Him, standing in nothing but his pants with a gun drawn at his best friend. "Why did you think it was okay to break into my flat? I could have shot you." 

"You wouldn't have," said Sherlock, his eyes darted around the room, categorizing and analyzing everything in sight and finally landed his gaze on John. 

John threw the gun onto the table with a loud clatter and sighed, facing his friend. "What are you doing here?" 

Sherlock took a large breath and raised his eyebrows slightly, ignoring his question. "You didn't answer the door, and you're still a mess." His hands were in the pockets of his Belstaff, the collar popped up around his ears. "It's freezing in here." 

John was indeed quite cold and had the childish impulse to suddenly ignore Sherlock and turn around to get back under the covers of his bed. Instead, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared at the detective. 

"You need a shower. Desperately. I'll be in the kitchen." Sherlock turned on his heel. "You stink of brandy," John heard him mutter down the hall. 

After taking a scalding hot shower, scrubbing until his skin was raw and the stubble on his jawline had been shaved away, John felt nearly human again. He put on a fresh change of clothes and walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock was sitting at the table lazily scrolling through his phone with his right thumb and fingers splayed across the back. His jacket lay discarded across the back of his chair whilst his long legs stretched across to the seat on his left, feet crossed and casually propped up. A cup of tea sat at the empty place setting opposite him.

“No sugar, no poison,” he said without glancing up from his phone as John walked into the room.

“Ta,” said John sitting down across from his friend.

“You’ll want to drink that quickly. We have quite a bit to do.” John frowned and Sherlock finally looked up from his phone. “Although, you haven’t acquired too many belongings so it shouldn’t take that long to pack.”

“Where am I going?” John took a sip of his tea. It had the perfect amount of milk, exactly how he liked it.

“Home,” Sherlock frowned at him. “I thought that was fairly obvious.”

John sighed and put his mug down. “You mean to Baker Street.”

Sherlock didn’t bother replying as he was already back to his mobile.

“Listen, Sherlock. I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“Of course it is.” He rolled his eyes and reached up to run an irritated hand through his curls. There were several small red cuts that ran along the delicate part of his wrist and John had a vivid flashback of the night before—Sherlock landing roughly in a pile of brandy and broken glass in the darkness of the kitchen.

John took another large gulp of hot tea.” I didn’t know that was something… I just didn’t think…” John licked his lips. Why couldn’t he just speak? “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he finally managed.  

Sherlock stood up from the table, pushing his chair back abruptly. “ I assume the only thing worth keeping in here is your beloved RAMC mug. In that case, I’ll take care of the bathroom and the linens, you pack up your clothes and whatever you want from the bedroom.”

John watched his friend’s retreating back as he walked through the hallway where he could be heard opening and closing cabinet doors and inaudibly scoffing at the lack of organization.

That settled it then; it was back to Baker Street.

 

 


	2. London, Part 2

London Part 2

At first it was difficult for John to admit to himself that it was a huge relief in coming back to live with Sherlock. In some ways, it was though nothing had changed, but John couldn’t fool even himself. Sometimes he imagined living a double life, one in domestic bliss with a baby daughter, the other shrouded in chasing criminals through London’s back alleyways.

In his relationship with Mary, the guilt had eaten away at him bit by bit. It was a different matter entirely when the person that you love most in the world was supposedly dead. For some reason it made it okay to regret, to think about the things he would have liked to say to Sherlock had he not died and left John with the horrible realisation that he’d been in love with his flatmate and best friend the entire time. For years, in fact.

Mary wasn’t Sherlock, but John knew that if he didn’t move on he’d go completely mad. In many ways, Mary brought him the absolution that he was looking for, that he needed. Little did he know how temporary it would be.

When Sherlock came back John was running out of excuses. It was too late; he was getting married. And he did love Mary, in a different way. It was the type of love that brought a gentle calm, a simple fondness. It was not passionate or fierce and John was not the type to believe in soul mates although if he did, he would have known that ship had already sailed the day he saw Sherlock jump off the roof of St. Bart's. Mary filled a gaping hole in John’s heart and he let her take the vacancy wholeheartedly. When he discovered that Sherlock was alive—that he died in order to save John—the guilt came back in full-force. And yet John could still not bring himself to say the things he needed to.

Mary knew and that was alright as long as Sherlock was dead. John tried not to be obvious, but he was never good at acting. He had a raw honesty about him that made it impossible to completely hide every emotion except when it came to the most important things. He knew their relationship was failing and he had developed a deep self-loathing because of his inability to come to terms with the fact that every night he fell asleep in Mary’s arms he was thinking about Sherlock. It was no wonder she had left when she did.

He had been living back at Baker Street for nearly a week with a semblance of a routine that involved stumbling out of bed to make tea, reading the paper, and either going to work or helping Sherlock on a case. Half the time Sherlock would be pacing in the sitting room waiting for John to wake up so that he could accompany him to Scotland Yard or Barts.

This morning was different, however. The flat was completely quiet as John came downstairs, with Sherlock’s bedroom door firmly shut. He didn’t have to go to the surgery until the evening and as far as John knew, Sherlock wasn’t currently on a case. Feeling restless, he resolved to go for a quick walk and get some air.

When he came back, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa wearing his deep blue dressing gown, long fingers steepled underneath his chin, staring blankly at the wall and John knew better than to disturb him. Instead he sat down in his chair and grabbed the laptop sitting on their desk.

“Do you remember when you told me that the Woman had gone to America under a witness protection programme?” asked Sherlock, cutting through the silence.

“I do, yes. Although that was quite some time ago.”

“I knew you lied.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

“Yes. I knew that Mycroft told you she was dead.”

“You haven’t talked about her in ages, Sherlock.”

“But ironically, that is indeed where she ended up.”

John frowned. “I’m not quite sure-"

“She didn’t die, John. I saved her.”

John’s stomach lurched unpleasantly and he suddenly had a vivid flashback of when he met Irene in the power plant. _You jealous?_ “What?” he asked. 

“From beheading. Just in time. It was only then that she got herself into a witness protection programme in America. So in fact, you were right in a way, even though you didn't know it.”

“Have you been in contact with her?” John asked.

“No. Not since that last night in Kabul. She assumed a new name, changed her accent and went to live in America. It would have been much too dangerous to have maintained any sort of communication.”

John tried his hardest to ignore the blatant resemblance to Mary.  “And why are you bringing her up now?”

“I believe she is in some sort of trouble. Kidnapped. I received an email this morning.” Sherlock stood up and walked around to the back of John’s chair, leaning over his shoulder to look at the laptop screen that John had propped open. “Go to my email, would you?”

John clicked on the small icon at the bottom of the screen, and scrolled through Sherlock’s inbox.

“It’s the second one from the top, just there.”

The sender’s address was just a random encryption of letters and numbers. The email was blank, with three images attached. John clicked on them.

 A blindfolded, dark-haired woman that was unmistakably Irene came up. The photo looked like it was taken in a dark room with flash from the camera, making her skin look sickly pale. The other two images were similar, taken from different angles. Her hands were bound behind her back, the background not discernable in the slightest. She was wearing a shapeless black coat and the blindfold was wound tightly, stretching across her face.

“Hang on,” said John. “You think she was kidnapped just from this? Isn’t this just what she likes?”

“I don’t think so. These photos were taken from a mobile phone in the upper east side of Manhattan. I had Mycroft trace it this morning. Why would she send these to me now, after all of this time?”

“To play a game perhaps?”

“That’s not all. The phone itself belongs to a murder suspect in the city, who went missing three weeks ago before he could be arrested. Irene had a lot of enemies, it is why she went to America in the first place. It could be one of Moriarty’s left over men, trying to seek revenge for all we know.”

John stared at the picture of Irene, considering. “But if the phone was traced-“

“It was traced to a person who was missing. Mycroft is still trying to get us an exact location, but it’s possible that the phone was destroyed after these photos were taken.”

“Why involve us in all of this?”

“I don’t know, John. That’s what makes it so intriguing. This is a seven, at least.” Sherlock’s eyes were bright.

“Hang on,” said John. “No, Sherlock. I know what you’re thinking. I’m not just going to get on a plane to America. If you want this case, you can go. I’ll be here.”

Sherlock stood up and came around to face John. “It’ll be dangerous,” he said seriously, his voice dropping half an octave.

John chuckled. “I know what you’re doing. The answer is no, Sherlock. I’ve got work.”

“But if you didn’t-“

“But I do.”

“So that’s the only thing stopping you then? Because you have work?”

“I suppose. It would be nice to get out of London for a bit. Could be therapeutic.” John looked up to see a glimmer of hope beginning on Sherlock’s face. "I absolutely cannot take time off.”

“Right,” said Sherlock nodding seriously. He clasped his hands together. “Well, that’s too bad then.” He let out a small, audible sigh and walked over to the door, shrugging on his coat and looping the blue scarf around his neck.

“You’re leaving now?”

“No. There’s something I need to do first. I’ll see you later.”

He grabbed his keys and closed the door gently behind him. John stood up and put the laptop away, walking to the window to see Sherlock hailing a cab at the kerb. The doctor turned back around to the empty flat.

“Shit,” he said to the skull on the mantle.

* * *

 The call came an hour later as John was washing up and puttering around the kitchen. He picked up his mobile to see the number for the surgery displayed. 

“John!” came the cheerful voice at the other end. “It’s Sarah. Listen, I heard what happened and I don’t want you to worry. Right now, you just need to take some time for yourself, okay?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sarah, whatever you’ve been told—“

“I’m sorry about Mary,” she said more softly. “Honestly, John. What you’re going through is really rough.”

John hadn’t told anyone at work what had happened. He didn’t want the pity or the whispers and stares. He liked that he could keep work separate from his personal life and he'd been evading questions from his colleagues. Mary had been on maternity leave, and he knew that eventually he would have to tell them when she didn’t come back. But he had wanted to put it off as long as possible.

“Thank you Sarah,” he said gently. “I appreciate it. Are you sure you don’t need me to come in?”

“No—really—it’s okay. Sherlock told me about your holiday to America. Just try to relax and use the time to heal. I’ll see you when you get back.”

John hung up the phone, knowing he should be angry with Sherlock for getting involved, but he wasn’t. He felt almost excited. He’d only been to the states once for a medical conference. Hardly a holiday, but then again, neither was a kidnapping case. 

His mobile chimed.

_Pack for us both and meet me at Heathrow. Flight leaves in four hours. - SH_

An email notification popped up with a British Airways boarding pass attached, and then another text. 

_Transfer half of my sock index to the black suitcase. **Don’t** mess it up. - SH_


End file.
